[FIC] Gytrash for anoradh
Gift type: Fanfic
Title: Gytrash
Author: metallikirk
Recipient: anoradh
Rating: PG-13
Warnings:
Spoilers: N/A
Word Count: 5090
Summary: In which Dean feels jealous, Castiel spends a lot of time with Sam and Sam is amused by the situation. AKA the fic with the hellbeast and a lot of sexual tension.
Author notes: I’ve taken some liberties with the legend of the Gytrash (or Shagfoal, as it’s known in my part of England.) It is primarily an English hellhound, but I found the legend interesting enough to displace its location for the purposes of the following story. The Gytrash, a legendary Black Dog known in northern England was said to haunt lonely roads awaiting travellers. Appearing in the shape of a horse, mule or dog, the Gytrash haunt solitary ways and lead people astray. They are usually feared, but they can also be benevolent, guiding lost travellers to the right road. In some parts of Lincolnshire and Yorkshire the gytrash was known as the 'Shagfoal' and took the form of a spectral mule or donkey with eyes that glowed like burning coals. In this form the beast was believed to be purely malevolent.
The Enochian pentagram banishing ritual featured in this story is real, details of which can be found here - http://hermetic.com/enochia/personal_enochian.html
Written for the Dean/Cas Secret Santa Exchange 2011 for anoradh. I mingled (hopefully not mangled) two of anoradh prompts for this - Anything based on/involving myths/mythology
and Jealousy making the boys realise their feelings. Preferably with Sam being all amused and knowing. I hope you like this, anoradh. It certainly was fun to write!
~*~*~*~
Dean sat sprawled upon the motel bed, legs angled over the blankets and gun cleaning equipment spread around him. He finished re-assembling his gun, before placing it aside to concentrate upon sharpening his dagger, caressing the blade in long sure strokes with a strip of leather. He hummed while he worked, a quiet rendition of Metallica’s “Suicide and Redemption” marking out time and strokes upon the blade by re-creating Kirk Hammett’s solo beneath his breath. Despite it being nearly Christmas, Dean outright refused to hum any carols.
Every so often he glanced up, taking his eyes from the job he’d performed so many times over the years, he could do it with his eyes practically closed. Outside, his gaze caught the tell-tale signs of impending Christmas by the trail of fat white flakes that drifted lazily down from the sky, coating the ground in a thick layer of snow that covered the already treacherous layer of ice. Dean was glad that they didn’t have to move for another day or two; the black ice and snow combined could only result in an accident. He made a note to himself to place chains upon the Impala’s wheels, when it was time for them to move; it was better to play on the safe side instead of tempting fate by going without.
On occasion his gaze caught the sight of Castiel and Sam across the room, hunched over the table that shadowed against the wall beneath the snow encrusted window. The angel’s slender, tan coated form was standing, chest almost pressed against Sam’s bulky shoulder. Dean slowed his movements slightly as he watched the curve of Castiel’s wrist peer out from beneath the cuffs of his coat, suit jacket and shirt, and the way that the angel’s long fingers pointed and stabbed at various words in the book spread out before them. Dean didn’t even know where the book had come from, other than Castiel had brought it with him, and Sam had a near fatal geek-gasm over the ancient pages and cracked leather covering. That alone had made Dean retreat to his bed and the safety of his guns and knives, feeling a little distanced from proceedings by the arrival of books. That sort of thing was more well suited to Sam, never him. Dean was a man of action, not reading.
He sighed and carried on sharpening his blade diligently, humming in scant snatches now as he listened to the gentle and oddly comforting murmur of Castiel’s voice in the background. The angel’s tone was explanatory, officious, words deep and hushed as he explained the nuances of the text to Sam, translating various pieces of Enochian so that the younger hunter grasped what the ritual inside the book entailed.
Dean’s mind flew back over the reasons for Castiel’s arrival here, and the inclusion of the ancient book of Enochian rituals into their lives. The ritual was said to banish a form of hellhound, known as a gytrash, from haunting the grounds of a Springfield, Massachusetts graveyard. Varying reports had come in, stating that the being was in the shape of a dog, while still others called it a horse, while yet others stated they saw a mule. All reports agreed that the being had glowing red eyes and was as black as the night was black.
Dean hadn’t been impressed by the reports; again and again, he repeated his sentiments that if presented with three eyewitnesses, he could guarantee he could extract three different accounts of events with barely any tallying factors. Sam had stated that Dean was merely being pessimistic. All the eyewitness reports could ascertain and correlate was that upon each night that the gytrash was sighted, someone died.
Little to no information had come to hand with regards as to how the gytrash could be killed, until Castiel had arrived while Sam and Dean were discussing the issue. Surprisingly, the angel had known of something that would be of help, disappearing and re-appearing again carrying the book that Sam and Castiel now perused. Upon seeing the book, Dean had immediately made his excuses and started cleaning his guns, not wishing to be part of any hefty research sessions, and therefore deciding to leave that sort of thing to Sam and Castiel.
Dean felt an irrevocable stab of jealousy then, feeling that Castiel was his angel, not Sam’s and it should be him that Castiel should be paying attention to. That emotion wasn’t the first time Dean had felt that way; in fact Dean knew that he’d been harbouring that jealousy for quite some time, feeling it stab through him every time that Castiel turned his liquid blue gaze onto Sam instead of him. It was Dean that Castiel had pulled from the Pit, Dean that Castiel had first bonded with, Dean that shared this mystical profound bond with Castiel, not Sam. Castiel, by rights, was Dean’s angel, never Sam’s and Dean felt an odd rush of angry jealousy over the fact that Castiel seemed to be spending more time with the younger of the Winchesters instead of the elder.
Dean’s thoughts skimmed over the fact that Castiel’s preference for Sam’s company was in no way aided by the fact that Dean himself was being irascible, pushing the angel into Sam’s literal arms, fuelled by jealously and a temper tantrum fit for someone far younger. He tried not to notice Sam casting an amused glance his way whenever Dean threw a cutting jibe towards Castiel’s head, regarding the angel preferring geeks and bitches to the one he was bonded with these days. Castiel, by design, always ignored Dean’s sarcastic remarks, all too used to them by now to even notice their existence.
In his inattention, Dean made a mistake. He made a noise, a slight mew of anguish in his throat, as for the first time in years, his hand slipped, now sharp blade cutting into the flesh of his palm and drawing a thick line of blood where it had cut. He swore, voice loud and angry into the otherwise hushed motel room, cutting into the low murmur of Castiel’s voice from across the room. The angel and the younger hunter both looked up, blue eyes joining hazel eyes into staring at the still cursing Dean Winchester.
“Son of a bitching knife cut my goddamned hand,” Dean yelled, shaking droplets of crimson blood across the room as he attempted to shake the pain away.
“Dean,” Castiel said, calmly, deep voice cutting into Dean’s angry yells effectively as he approached the cussing hunter. “Dean, let me help.”
“Damn you, Cas. What the hell can you do? This is your fault, you know, “ Dean said, as he threatened Castiel with a pointed, and distinctly uninjured hand in Castiel’s impassive face.
Castiel remained silent, eyes downcast, eyelashes framing his eyes and laying against his cheek as he examined Dean’s injured hand. Dean tried not to stare and ignored the resultant chuckle from Sam by the window as a result. Castiel pressed his fingers against the cut, drawing more blood and more curses from Dean’s angry mouth at the pain it caused him. Castiel shushed him - actually shushed him - before he muttered something in Enochian, mouth forming guttural noises that Dean couldn’t possibly even begin to understand. He listened, however, always enjoying whenever Castiel spoke in his mother tongue, something that the angel rarely ever did, as though the words were sacred to him, too sacred for humans and perhaps they were. Dean held his breath, an agonised note escaping from his lips as the flesh upon his palm began to knit together, gash healing and blood drying until there was nothing left but a tiny pink scar in Dean’s skin. Then, even that was gone, taken away by Castiel’s healing magic until nothing was left to tell of Dean’s prior misfortune.
Castiel did not relinquish his hold upon Dean’s hand immediately, long fingers resting for far too long against Dean’s wrist, caressing him slightly even though there was no need to do so anymore. The angel’s gaze liftted, pinning Dean where he sat with just one glance. Even though the eyes were human, stolen from a willing vessel, the expression behind them, that imbued the man with life still was not, ultimately inhuman and inaccessible to all but Dean.
“You are healed, Dean,” Castiel announced, despite the fact that that little fact was no doubt obvious. “That shows that despite my extended visits with your brother, I do still care about you. You are still my charge and always will be.”
With that, he disappeared, leaving nothing behind but the faint flapping of wings and a ruffle of intoxicatingly scented breeze against Dean’s face and hair. Sam was still laughing, dimples pushed deep into his cheeks as he stared at Dean.
“You are so jealous, Dean,” Sam said, when the other man turned a curious glance over at him. “Get over yourself already. You heard Cas. He cares.”
“Shut up, bitch. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean mumbled angrily. “Who’s jealous? I'm not jealous, no one’s jealous. Are you jealous?”
“I'm not the one with the major hang-up on the angel in the room,” Sam observed wryly.
“There’s no angel in the room, Sam. That alone proves you’re talking out your ass,” Dean shot back with an exultant grin.
Sam sighed at that, knowing that when Dean got himself into one of his moods, there would be no talking him out of it. Still, he watched Dean, knowing that there was something more going on in Dean’s head than he was letting on. Knowing his brother as well as Sam did, there always was something wrong with him. It was just a matter of time before Dean cracked and revealed some, if not all, of what was bothering him.
~*~*~*~
Castiel took to spending more time with Sam over the next couple of days, teaching him all that he could of the ritual. Dean, by proxy, removed himself from proceedings, still feeling sore and abused by the unconscious ignoring of his wants and needs. He watched proceedings however, impressed with Castiel’s skills at teaching the various words and actions required to coincide with the ritual, all too used to being the teacher to Castiel’s student in the ways of humanity. It made a change and a subtle difference to their relationships for Castiel to take charge for once and his methods were succinct, to the point and very effective. Sam always a quick learner by default, had mastered the ramifications of the ritual in no time at all, quicker than Dean himself knew that he could have learned it himself.
Sam in turn, kept a close watch upon Dean, smiling privately to himself at the way that Dean’s eyes always rested upon the way Castiel would lean into Sam, trying to attract the younger Winchester’s wandering attention with a well-placed, well-meaning hand to the shoulder. Sam’s attention was wandering for a very good reason - to gauge Dean’s reactions to what was happening. Sam caught Dean’s gaze more than once over the coming days, smiling at the questioning look in his brother’s eyes, the almost accusatory look that followed swiftly after. Then Sam would allow Castiel to divert his attention back to the ancient texts once more.
Castiel seemed oblivious to Dean’s growing sullen attitude, the way that Dean would snap for no reason, and the bristling attitude that was always beneath the surface at all times. Sam knew, however, the reasons for this behaviour, until finally he decided to take things into his own hands.
Dean had disappeared alone for the night, as he was wont to do these days after the whole jealousy reared its very literal ugly head. Sam had a good guess as to where Dean had been going. The elder hunter always turned up in the motel room in the early hours of the morning, vaguely drunk and smelling of bars. He also had been looking even more dissatisfied than usual after these excursions, as though he’d been planning an easy hook-up with some random chick and hadn’t been able to score or to get it up afterwards. Sam couldn’t help feel sorry for his brother, albeit in a knowing way. He doubted that Castiel’s feelings towards Sam himself were anything beyond the mandatory helping him to defeat the gytrash, after Dean had made it clear that he was having no part in any rituals beyond the obvious point-and-shoot of his gun.
Finally, after three days of sullen attitudes and three nights of drunken behaviour, Sam decided to make his move, at last.
~*~*~*~
Dean was only halfway to drunk again that night, footsteps only slightly faltering as he made his way into the motel room, keys jangling quietly in his palm as he closed the door lightly behind him. He checked Sam’s bed to make sure that his brother hadn’t stirred, and sighed quietly when the bulk of the other man barely moved. He slipped into the bathroom, took a leak and was just returning to the main bedroom, when Sam suddenly sat up and snapped on the light.
“What?” Dean asked, stopping in his tracks and staring guiltily at Sam, as though he’d been caught red-handed while doing something particularly blasphemous.
“Well?” Sam asked, raising one eyebrow and giving Dean the patented bitch-face of Sammy doom that Dean knew so well.
“Well, what? Wells have water in the bottom,” Dean shot back.
“That makes no sense, Dean,” Sam said, as he threw his brother a questioning look. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”
“Not nearly enough, apparently,” Dean groaned, as he lowered himself none too gently down upon his bed, springs squeaking in protest over the additional weight.
“Now, who’s not talking any sense?” Sam asked, with a sigh.
Dean didn’t reply. Instead, he draped one forearm over his eyes and pointedly snored, as though with that one fake noise, he could drown Sam out with his need for talking at times when Dean blatantly didn’t want to.
“You're not asleep, Dean, and neither are you getting out of this that easily,” Sam said, allowing a little of the aggravation to creep into his voice that he’d been feeling for days.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean said, stoically.
“I think you do,” Sam said, not allowing Dean to sidetrack him with meaningless words.
“Nope,” Dean said, and steadfastly refused to speak further.
“Cas,” Sam said, making Dean immediately sit upright and check the room for the angel.
Sam laughed at him then, before he said - “No, Cas isn’t here. I was merely talking about him.”
“Won’t you get smote for talking about an angel behind his back?” Dean asked, slumping back against the pillows.
This time he did not bother covering his eyes, knowing that Sam would not quit pestering him until he’d at least said something.
“The amount of times we’ve talked about Cas when he’s not here, and has anything happened? That would be a no, Dean. Anyway, serious avoidance issues as per usual, dude,” Sam said, pointedly.
Dean grunted and pointedly remained silent.
“Listen, did you not hear what Cas said the other day? That he still cared about ya? He’s only helping out with this ritual and you’ve made it clear you want no part of the research,” Sam said. “I think someone’s got a case of the green eyed jealousy monster.”
“He’s my angel,” Dean muttered, without thinking.
“I know he is. Did you hear nothing of what I just said to you? He’s helping me out, nothing else. If you think like that, why don’t you just ask him out? And don’t give me no crap about he’s an angel and you’d be blaspheming. Cas was the one who started all that crap about the profound bond and who does he come to when they call? You, Dean, you! Rarely ever me. Besides, I don’t suppose you’ve noticed how he looks at you. Intense stares much,” Sam said. “You should totally ask him out.”
Dean grunted, but said nothing, merely sat staring straight ahead, with his arms crossed over his chest. It was apparent to the younger man that Dean was going into serious avoidance hibernation again and he sighed. He knew, however, by the musing look in Dean’s eyes that his brother was, at least, giving the situation some thought. That imbued some hope in Sam’s chest. Dean always did do the right thing after a few hours of solid thought, and the right thing in this case was to ask Castiel out.
“You think about what I said,” Sam said, finally, before switching off his light.
~*~*~*~
The graveyard was dark and silent, lit only by the reflected light of the moon, and tiny pinpricks of stars overhead. Snow lay upon the ground in thick swathes, piling up against the grave markers in white splashes against the encroaching darkness.
Dean yawned hugely, scrubbing at his eyes to dispel the vagaries of sleep. Sam was stationed nearby, showing only the vaguest signs of nervousness, the set of his shoulders and the slight unconscious shuffles of one foot against the ground. Castiel was standing beside Dean, so close the hunter could feel the heat emanating from the angel’s body and the press of his vessel’s arm against his own. For once, Dean did not protest Castiel’s close proximity; instead, he found it quite comforting, something to be desired rather than railed against. Castiel didn’t appear to mind the contact either, but then again, Castiel never minded contact, especially when said contact was with Dean.
Finally, the sounds of hoof beats sounded in the night air, drawing closer, echoing wildly off the grave markers in weird sepulchral angles that shouldn’t have been possible under ordinary circumstances. Dean tensed and felt the grasp of Castiel’s hand against his own, fingers curling around Dean’s to stay the hunter for a while longer. Dean was about to protest the hand-holding, yet Castiel pre-empted his loud protestations by pressing one slender finger against his lips. Dean nodded and allowed the contact, despite thinking that hand-holding was for girls. Still, he squeezed Castiel’s hand and smiled when the angel did.
The gytrash came into view then, monstrously huge and almost invisible against the dark of the night. Its black fur glimmered when the moon and the stars caught it, and the beast's nostrils flared and snorted great gouts of flame. Its eyes flared a bright red, the only point of light that emanated from the beast other than the flames. It whinnied, the sounds tolling like the most sepulchral of bells, instead of the usual pleasant sounds of horses. It pawed at the ground with one great hoof, striking sparks where no sparks should have been struck and it reared, dark form an even darker outline against the night sky.
“Sam, now,” Castiel ordered, deep voice cutting through the air in a clear order.
Sam stepped forward, in determination, and stood to face the north, scribing the shape of a pentagram in the air. He touched his forehead and intoned the first of the Enochian words that Castiel had taught him - NONCF KHYS. His voice was ominous, yet lacked the forceful timbre of Castiel’s whenever he performed Enochian magic. The gytrash turned to face Sam, blazing eyes burning towards the younger Winchester and it cantered forward on mincing hooves, great bellows of steam and flame jetting from its nostrils. Sam did not flinch nor falter; instead he continued, steadfast in every action and every word uttered, before he ended the ritual with the stance of Osiris slain and intoned the words - LUKAL Y YKZHHKAL
BABAGE Y EDLPRNAA RA-AS Y BATAYVAH OD SOBOLN Y RAAGYSOL
MYKMA VNAL YALPOR OYVEAE DS BYAH ASPS O NOKO
The gyrtrash reared and bucked, caught within the flames of hell rising up to claim its pet once more. Sam’s face was grim and determined, scowl deepening above angry and determined hazel eyes. He stood back and watched as the ground shimmered and bucked, opening wide to draw the gytrash down into its depths. Sam turned away as licks of fire and ice poured out of the hole, whirlwind whipping out of the ground to claim the fell beast that had darkened the Earth.
Finally, the night fell silent and the gytrash was no more, banished back to where it had come from. Sam stood back and glanced towards his brother, looking tired and older than his years suddenly. Dean walked forward, gaze fixed upon the ground, which had sealed itself against the passing of the gytrash as though nothing had happened at all. Castiel, still trapped within the grasp of Dean’s encircling hand, followed him silently, dark blue gaze shifting from Sam to Dean.
“You did well, Sam,” Castiel told the younger Winchester, when Dean remained silent. “You succeeded.”
“Yeah, good job, Sammy,” Dean agreed, breath streaming from his mouth in great gusts of white moisture against the darkness Castiel remained silent, as watchful as ever, staring at Dean and making the elder hunter uncomfortable beneath the weight of his gaze. As ever, Castiel did not seem to expect anything from him, yet Dean felt like giving him something anyway.
“So, thanks for the help, tonight Cas. I don’t think we could have done this without your help,” he said, with a smile.
“You are welcome, Dean,” Castiel replied, immediately.
Sam shifted uncomfortably, obviously feeling a little left out of what appeared to be a private exchange between Dean and Castiel. Neither took any notice of him, however, gazes locked, seemingly communing without words in the way that they most often appeared to do. It was only then that Sam decided to finally take matters into his own hands and push the couple together if need be.
“Are you well, Sam?” Castiel asked, suddenly, speaking to the younger Winchester without ever taking his gaze from Dean.
“I’m good, Cas. Tired but good. I think Dean has something to ask you, don’t you Dean?” Sam asked, pointedly, as he reached out to jab Dean’s shoulder with a tight pinch.
Dean swore and cast a disgusted look at his brother, only to be met with a pointed, encouraging glare.
“Don’t you, Dean?” Sam repeated, harshly.
“Yes,” Castiel prompted, patiently, when Dean didn’t immediately say anything. “What is it you wish to ask me, Dean?”
“Dude, seriously?” Dean asked, sounding uncomfortable as he continued staring at Sam.
“Do it, Dean. If you don’t then I’ll do it for you,” Sam said, with a disgusted and long suffering snort.
“Goddamnit, Sammy, what d’you think I am? A pussy? I can ask people out on my own, thanks,” Dean protested, in disgust.
“Then do it,” Sam said, with a laugh.
Dean glanced at Castiel, who was staring at him levelly, large eyes wider still in a liquid look of intense scrutiny. The angel looked just as inscrutable as ever, yet his eyes were the give-away of hopefulness. Dean was reminded of a puppy, begging for scraps and attention and he couldn’t help but smirk at the comparison. When it still seemed as though Dean wasn’t going to speak, awkwardness robbing him of words, Castiel spoke for him.
“Is this true, Dean? Do you wish to ask me out on a date?” he asked.
“I don’t do dates, Cas. I would like to take you out for a drink, though,” Dean replied.
“Don’t listen to him. It’s definitely a date, Cas,” Sam supplied, determinedly.
“Shut up,” Dean said. “Bitch.”
“Jerk,” Sam replied, automatically.
“Yes, Dean, I would like to go out on a date with you,” Castiel replied, graciously and formally. “Thank you for asking me.”
“You‘re welcome,” Dean said, a distinct growl in his tone.
Sam grinned and gave his brother a silent, and almost mocking clap.
“It’s about time you two got together,” he said. “The sexual tension was just about killing me.”
“Shut up,” Dean said and walked away, leaving Castiel no choice but to follow in his footsteps.
~*~*~*~
The rest of the evening went quickly, with Dean and Castiel just managing to catch a bar before it closed for the night. They had a drink each, but didn’t say much to one another. Despite this, the silence was comfortable, shared by two people who did not need to speak with words. Christmas carols played softly in the background, yet strangely, Dean did not find them intrusive or annoying,, as he usually would do. Strangely, he found them oddly fitting and Castiel did not seem to mind them.
Their hands continuously found each other, fingers brushing together purposefully and embarrassed smiles and chuckles soon exchanged. Castiel’s thigh was a constant pressure against Dean’s, yet the hunter did not shuffle away. Again, he found the contact comforting and when it came for the bar to finally close, he turned to Castiel, to ask him if he wanted to leave.
Castiel was sitting so close to Dean,. the hunter almost bumped noses with him, breath mingling in huffing little puffs as they stared into each other’s eyes. Dean swallowed, and he could feel the tension hanging thick in the air between them, atmosphere charged with promises and unspoken words that probably didn’t need to be addressed. Castiel licked his lips, pink tip soft and plush against his lips and that was all it took for Dean to finally lean in, closing the distance between them. Castiel’s mouth was as soft as looked, pliant beneath his own and although the kiss was uncoordinated and awkward, with Castiel not quite knowing what to do, it was pleasant, sweet and Dean wanted more.
He led Castiel from the bar wordlessly, clutching at the angel’s wrist as he did so, before leading him down a dark alley beside the bar, abandoned but for themselves. He leant in for another kiss, deeper this time, more insistent and the weight of Castiel’s hands against his back was a comfort. Castiel proved to be a quick learner for all his awkwardness in the bar, lips meeting and parting with Dean’s, growing in confidence as Dean nipped and sucked at the angel’s lips, marking him with teeth and tongue, soft appreciative moans the only sounds they made. Dean felt the tension he’d been feeling for some time break away and fall by the roadside and he opened up to Castiel, let him in and Castiel kissed him back, unashamed, giving as much as he took. The sensations were intoxicating, heady and almost too much, too quick and Castiel tasted like cinnamon and chocolate and flights amongst the clouds and sunshine upon Dean’s tongue.
Finally he drew away, needing to breathe and he stared at Castiel’s reddened, kiss bitten lips, swollen and tempting before him.
“Cas,” he said, voice a needy croak now.
Castiel shushed him, blinking slowly in the meagre light of the alleyway. “I know.”
Dean didn’t know what Castiel was referring to and hadn't known what he was about to say himself either. All he knew was that Castiel was there, finally in his arms and that his kisses were sweeter than wine and twice as addictive and intoxicating.
“Please,” Dean said, then and leant in for another kiss
Castiel let him, mouth parting beneath the hunter’s onslaught, tongues sliding one against the other, as the angel’s hands dipped down low to press against Dean’s ass, drawing him in closer. Again, Dean drew away, breath heaving in his chest, eyes closed as he leant his forehead against the angel’s.
“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he murmured against Castiel’s swollen mouth.
“Then why didn’t you?” Castiel asked, amusement warming his tone considerably. “I’ve been waiting for it.”
“You should have done something about it,” Dean said, with a chuckle.
“I didn’t know how,” Castiel replied, honestly. “There’s some places even an angel fears to tread.”
Dean laughed at that, before he said - “Somehow, I find that hard to believe, Cas.”
Castiel merely smiled at him and leant up to press a gentle kiss to Dean’s waiting mouth. Dean responded, gentler this time, smiling at the way Castiel pressed swift, bird-like kisses against his mouth, as though the angel was frightened of taking too much too soon.
“We’ve got plenty of time, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured against Castiel’s mouth.
“I know,” Castiel replied, and kissed him again.
Dean smiled into the kiss, thinking to himself as he did so, that it was the best Christmas ever. He’d be damned if he’d thank Sam for finally bringing Castiel and him together, however.
~~ the end ~~
Title: Gytrash
Author: metallikirk
Recipient: anoradh
Rating: PG-13
Warnings:
Spoilers: N/A
Word Count: 5090
Summary: In which Dean feels jealous, Castiel spends a lot of time with Sam and Sam is amused by the situation. AKA the fic with the hellbeast and a lot of sexual tension.
Author notes: I’ve taken some liberties with the legend of the Gytrash (or Shagfoal, as it’s known in my part of England.) It is primarily an English hellhound, but I found the legend interesting enough to displace its location for the purposes of the following story. The Gytrash, a legendary Black Dog known in northern England was said to haunt lonely roads awaiting travellers. Appearing in the shape of a horse, mule or dog, the Gytrash haunt solitary ways and lead people astray. They are usually feared, but they can also be benevolent, guiding lost travellers to the right road. In some parts of Lincolnshire and Yorkshire the gytrash was known as the 'Shagfoal' and took the form of a spectral mule or donkey with eyes that glowed like burning coals. In this form the beast was believed to be purely malevolent.
The Enochian pentagram banishing ritual featured in this story is real, details of which can be found here - http://hermetic.com/enochia/personal_enochian.html
Written for the Dean/Cas Secret Santa Exchange 2011 for anoradh. I mingled (hopefully not mangled) two of anoradh prompts for this - Anything based on/involving myths/mythology
and Jealousy making the boys realise their feelings. Preferably with Sam being all amused and knowing. I hope you like this, anoradh. It certainly was fun to write!
~*~*~*~
Dean sat sprawled upon the motel bed, legs angled over the blankets and gun cleaning equipment spread around him. He finished re-assembling his gun, before placing it aside to concentrate upon sharpening his dagger, caressing the blade in long sure strokes with a strip of leather. He hummed while he worked, a quiet rendition of Metallica’s “Suicide and Redemption” marking out time and strokes upon the blade by re-creating Kirk Hammett’s solo beneath his breath. Despite it being nearly Christmas, Dean outright refused to hum any carols.
Every so often he glanced up, taking his eyes from the job he’d performed so many times over the years, he could do it with his eyes practically closed. Outside, his gaze caught the tell-tale signs of impending Christmas by the trail of fat white flakes that drifted lazily down from the sky, coating the ground in a thick layer of snow that covered the already treacherous layer of ice. Dean was glad that they didn’t have to move for another day or two; the black ice and snow combined could only result in an accident. He made a note to himself to place chains upon the Impala’s wheels, when it was time for them to move; it was better to play on the safe side instead of tempting fate by going without.
On occasion his gaze caught the sight of Castiel and Sam across the room, hunched over the table that shadowed against the wall beneath the snow encrusted window. The angel’s slender, tan coated form was standing, chest almost pressed against Sam’s bulky shoulder. Dean slowed his movements slightly as he watched the curve of Castiel’s wrist peer out from beneath the cuffs of his coat, suit jacket and shirt, and the way that the angel’s long fingers pointed and stabbed at various words in the book spread out before them. Dean didn’t even know where the book had come from, other than Castiel had brought it with him, and Sam had a near fatal geek-gasm over the ancient pages and cracked leather covering. That alone had made Dean retreat to his bed and the safety of his guns and knives, feeling a little distanced from proceedings by the arrival of books. That sort of thing was more well suited to Sam, never him. Dean was a man of action, not reading.
He sighed and carried on sharpening his blade diligently, humming in scant snatches now as he listened to the gentle and oddly comforting murmur of Castiel’s voice in the background. The angel’s tone was explanatory, officious, words deep and hushed as he explained the nuances of the text to Sam, translating various pieces of Enochian so that the younger hunter grasped what the ritual inside the book entailed.
Dean’s mind flew back over the reasons for Castiel’s arrival here, and the inclusion of the ancient book of Enochian rituals into their lives. The ritual was said to banish a form of hellhound, known as a gytrash, from haunting the grounds of a Springfield, Massachusetts graveyard. Varying reports had come in, stating that the being was in the shape of a dog, while still others called it a horse, while yet others stated they saw a mule. All reports agreed that the being had glowing red eyes and was as black as the night was black.
Dean hadn’t been impressed by the reports; again and again, he repeated his sentiments that if presented with three eyewitnesses, he could guarantee he could extract three different accounts of events with barely any tallying factors. Sam had stated that Dean was merely being pessimistic. All the eyewitness reports could ascertain and correlate was that upon each night that the gytrash was sighted, someone died.
Little to no information had come to hand with regards as to how the gytrash could be killed, until Castiel had arrived while Sam and Dean were discussing the issue. Surprisingly, the angel had known of something that would be of help, disappearing and re-appearing again carrying the book that Sam and Castiel now perused. Upon seeing the book, Dean had immediately made his excuses and started cleaning his guns, not wishing to be part of any hefty research sessions, and therefore deciding to leave that sort of thing to Sam and Castiel.
Dean felt an irrevocable stab of jealousy then, feeling that Castiel was his angel, not Sam’s and it should be him that Castiel should be paying attention to. That emotion wasn’t the first time Dean had felt that way; in fact Dean knew that he’d been harbouring that jealousy for quite some time, feeling it stab through him every time that Castiel turned his liquid blue gaze onto Sam instead of him. It was Dean that Castiel had pulled from the Pit, Dean that Castiel had first bonded with, Dean that shared this mystical profound bond with Castiel, not Sam. Castiel, by rights, was Dean’s angel, never Sam’s and Dean felt an odd rush of angry jealousy over the fact that Castiel seemed to be spending more time with the younger of the Winchesters instead of the elder.
Dean’s thoughts skimmed over the fact that Castiel’s preference for Sam’s company was in no way aided by the fact that Dean himself was being irascible, pushing the angel into Sam’s literal arms, fuelled by jealously and a temper tantrum fit for someone far younger. He tried not to notice Sam casting an amused glance his way whenever Dean threw a cutting jibe towards Castiel’s head, regarding the angel preferring geeks and bitches to the one he was bonded with these days. Castiel, by design, always ignored Dean’s sarcastic remarks, all too used to them by now to even notice their existence.
In his inattention, Dean made a mistake. He made a noise, a slight mew of anguish in his throat, as for the first time in years, his hand slipped, now sharp blade cutting into the flesh of his palm and drawing a thick line of blood where it had cut. He swore, voice loud and angry into the otherwise hushed motel room, cutting into the low murmur of Castiel’s voice from across the room. The angel and the younger hunter both looked up, blue eyes joining hazel eyes into staring at the still cursing Dean Winchester.
“Son of a bitching knife cut my goddamned hand,” Dean yelled, shaking droplets of crimson blood across the room as he attempted to shake the pain away.
“Dean,” Castiel said, calmly, deep voice cutting into Dean’s angry yells effectively as he approached the cussing hunter. “Dean, let me help.”
“Damn you, Cas. What the hell can you do? This is your fault, you know, “ Dean said, as he threatened Castiel with a pointed, and distinctly uninjured hand in Castiel’s impassive face.
Castiel remained silent, eyes downcast, eyelashes framing his eyes and laying against his cheek as he examined Dean’s injured hand. Dean tried not to stare and ignored the resultant chuckle from Sam by the window as a result. Castiel pressed his fingers against the cut, drawing more blood and more curses from Dean’s angry mouth at the pain it caused him. Castiel shushed him - actually shushed him - before he muttered something in Enochian, mouth forming guttural noises that Dean couldn’t possibly even begin to understand. He listened, however, always enjoying whenever Castiel spoke in his mother tongue, something that the angel rarely ever did, as though the words were sacred to him, too sacred for humans and perhaps they were. Dean held his breath, an agonised note escaping from his lips as the flesh upon his palm began to knit together, gash healing and blood drying until there was nothing left but a tiny pink scar in Dean’s skin. Then, even that was gone, taken away by Castiel’s healing magic until nothing was left to tell of Dean’s prior misfortune.
Castiel did not relinquish his hold upon Dean’s hand immediately, long fingers resting for far too long against Dean’s wrist, caressing him slightly even though there was no need to do so anymore. The angel’s gaze liftted, pinning Dean where he sat with just one glance. Even though the eyes were human, stolen from a willing vessel, the expression behind them, that imbued the man with life still was not, ultimately inhuman and inaccessible to all but Dean.
“You are healed, Dean,” Castiel announced, despite the fact that that little fact was no doubt obvious. “That shows that despite my extended visits with your brother, I do still care about you. You are still my charge and always will be.”
With that, he disappeared, leaving nothing behind but the faint flapping of wings and a ruffle of intoxicatingly scented breeze against Dean’s face and hair. Sam was still laughing, dimples pushed deep into his cheeks as he stared at Dean.
“You are so jealous, Dean,” Sam said, when the other man turned a curious glance over at him. “Get over yourself already. You heard Cas. He cares.”
“Shut up, bitch. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean mumbled angrily. “Who’s jealous? I'm not jealous, no one’s jealous. Are you jealous?”
“I'm not the one with the major hang-up on the angel in the room,” Sam observed wryly.
“There’s no angel in the room, Sam. That alone proves you’re talking out your ass,” Dean shot back with an exultant grin.
Sam sighed at that, knowing that when Dean got himself into one of his moods, there would be no talking him out of it. Still, he watched Dean, knowing that there was something more going on in Dean’s head than he was letting on. Knowing his brother as well as Sam did, there always was something wrong with him. It was just a matter of time before Dean cracked and revealed some, if not all, of what was bothering him.
~*~*~*~
Castiel took to spending more time with Sam over the next couple of days, teaching him all that he could of the ritual. Dean, by proxy, removed himself from proceedings, still feeling sore and abused by the unconscious ignoring of his wants and needs. He watched proceedings however, impressed with Castiel’s skills at teaching the various words and actions required to coincide with the ritual, all too used to being the teacher to Castiel’s student in the ways of humanity. It made a change and a subtle difference to their relationships for Castiel to take charge for once and his methods were succinct, to the point and very effective. Sam always a quick learner by default, had mastered the ramifications of the ritual in no time at all, quicker than Dean himself knew that he could have learned it himself.
Sam in turn, kept a close watch upon Dean, smiling privately to himself at the way that Dean’s eyes always rested upon the way Castiel would lean into Sam, trying to attract the younger Winchester’s wandering attention with a well-placed, well-meaning hand to the shoulder. Sam’s attention was wandering for a very good reason - to gauge Dean’s reactions to what was happening. Sam caught Dean’s gaze more than once over the coming days, smiling at the questioning look in his brother’s eyes, the almost accusatory look that followed swiftly after. Then Sam would allow Castiel to divert his attention back to the ancient texts once more.
Castiel seemed oblivious to Dean’s growing sullen attitude, the way that Dean would snap for no reason, and the bristling attitude that was always beneath the surface at all times. Sam knew, however, the reasons for this behaviour, until finally he decided to take things into his own hands.
Dean had disappeared alone for the night, as he was wont to do these days after the whole jealousy reared its very literal ugly head. Sam had a good guess as to where Dean had been going. The elder hunter always turned up in the motel room in the early hours of the morning, vaguely drunk and smelling of bars. He also had been looking even more dissatisfied than usual after these excursions, as though he’d been planning an easy hook-up with some random chick and hadn’t been able to score or to get it up afterwards. Sam couldn’t help feel sorry for his brother, albeit in a knowing way. He doubted that Castiel’s feelings towards Sam himself were anything beyond the mandatory helping him to defeat the gytrash, after Dean had made it clear that he was having no part in any rituals beyond the obvious point-and-shoot of his gun.
Finally, after three days of sullen attitudes and three nights of drunken behaviour, Sam decided to make his move, at last.
~*~*~*~
Dean was only halfway to drunk again that night, footsteps only slightly faltering as he made his way into the motel room, keys jangling quietly in his palm as he closed the door lightly behind him. He checked Sam’s bed to make sure that his brother hadn’t stirred, and sighed quietly when the bulk of the other man barely moved. He slipped into the bathroom, took a leak and was just returning to the main bedroom, when Sam suddenly sat up and snapped on the light.
“What?” Dean asked, stopping in his tracks and staring guiltily at Sam, as though he’d been caught red-handed while doing something particularly blasphemous.
“Well?” Sam asked, raising one eyebrow and giving Dean the patented bitch-face of Sammy doom that Dean knew so well.
“Well, what? Wells have water in the bottom,” Dean shot back.
“That makes no sense, Dean,” Sam said, as he threw his brother a questioning look. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”
“Not nearly enough, apparently,” Dean groaned, as he lowered himself none too gently down upon his bed, springs squeaking in protest over the additional weight.
“Now, who’s not talking any sense?” Sam asked, with a sigh.
Dean didn’t reply. Instead, he draped one forearm over his eyes and pointedly snored, as though with that one fake noise, he could drown Sam out with his need for talking at times when Dean blatantly didn’t want to.
“You're not asleep, Dean, and neither are you getting out of this that easily,” Sam said, allowing a little of the aggravation to creep into his voice that he’d been feeling for days.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean said, stoically.
“I think you do,” Sam said, not allowing Dean to sidetrack him with meaningless words.
“Nope,” Dean said, and steadfastly refused to speak further.
“Cas,” Sam said, making Dean immediately sit upright and check the room for the angel.
Sam laughed at him then, before he said - “No, Cas isn’t here. I was merely talking about him.”
“Won’t you get smote for talking about an angel behind his back?” Dean asked, slumping back against the pillows.
This time he did not bother covering his eyes, knowing that Sam would not quit pestering him until he’d at least said something.
“The amount of times we’ve talked about Cas when he’s not here, and has anything happened? That would be a no, Dean. Anyway, serious avoidance issues as per usual, dude,” Sam said, pointedly.
Dean grunted and pointedly remained silent.
“Listen, did you not hear what Cas said the other day? That he still cared about ya? He’s only helping out with this ritual and you’ve made it clear you want no part of the research,” Sam said. “I think someone’s got a case of the green eyed jealousy monster.”
“He’s my angel,” Dean muttered, without thinking.
“I know he is. Did you hear nothing of what I just said to you? He’s helping me out, nothing else. If you think like that, why don’t you just ask him out? And don’t give me no crap about he’s an angel and you’d be blaspheming. Cas was the one who started all that crap about the profound bond and who does he come to when they call? You, Dean, you! Rarely ever me. Besides, I don’t suppose you’ve noticed how he looks at you. Intense stares much,” Sam said. “You should totally ask him out.”
Dean grunted, but said nothing, merely sat staring straight ahead, with his arms crossed over his chest. It was apparent to the younger man that Dean was going into serious avoidance hibernation again and he sighed. He knew, however, by the musing look in Dean’s eyes that his brother was, at least, giving the situation some thought. That imbued some hope in Sam’s chest. Dean always did do the right thing after a few hours of solid thought, and the right thing in this case was to ask Castiel out.
“You think about what I said,” Sam said, finally, before switching off his light.
~*~*~*~
The graveyard was dark and silent, lit only by the reflected light of the moon, and tiny pinpricks of stars overhead. Snow lay upon the ground in thick swathes, piling up against the grave markers in white splashes against the encroaching darkness.
Dean yawned hugely, scrubbing at his eyes to dispel the vagaries of sleep. Sam was stationed nearby, showing only the vaguest signs of nervousness, the set of his shoulders and the slight unconscious shuffles of one foot against the ground. Castiel was standing beside Dean, so close the hunter could feel the heat emanating from the angel’s body and the press of his vessel’s arm against his own. For once, Dean did not protest Castiel’s close proximity; instead, he found it quite comforting, something to be desired rather than railed against. Castiel didn’t appear to mind the contact either, but then again, Castiel never minded contact, especially when said contact was with Dean.
Finally, the sounds of hoof beats sounded in the night air, drawing closer, echoing wildly off the grave markers in weird sepulchral angles that shouldn’t have been possible under ordinary circumstances. Dean tensed and felt the grasp of Castiel’s hand against his own, fingers curling around Dean’s to stay the hunter for a while longer. Dean was about to protest the hand-holding, yet Castiel pre-empted his loud protestations by pressing one slender finger against his lips. Dean nodded and allowed the contact, despite thinking that hand-holding was for girls. Still, he squeezed Castiel’s hand and smiled when the angel did.
The gytrash came into view then, monstrously huge and almost invisible against the dark of the night. Its black fur glimmered when the moon and the stars caught it, and the beast's nostrils flared and snorted great gouts of flame. Its eyes flared a bright red, the only point of light that emanated from the beast other than the flames. It whinnied, the sounds tolling like the most sepulchral of bells, instead of the usual pleasant sounds of horses. It pawed at the ground with one great hoof, striking sparks where no sparks should have been struck and it reared, dark form an even darker outline against the night sky.
“Sam, now,” Castiel ordered, deep voice cutting through the air in a clear order.
Sam stepped forward, in determination, and stood to face the north, scribing the shape of a pentagram in the air. He touched his forehead and intoned the first of the Enochian words that Castiel had taught him - NONCF KHYS. His voice was ominous, yet lacked the forceful timbre of Castiel’s whenever he performed Enochian magic. The gytrash turned to face Sam, blazing eyes burning towards the younger Winchester and it cantered forward on mincing hooves, great bellows of steam and flame jetting from its nostrils. Sam did not flinch nor falter; instead he continued, steadfast in every action and every word uttered, before he ended the ritual with the stance of Osiris slain and intoned the words - LUKAL Y YKZHHKAL
BABAGE Y EDLPRNAA RA-AS Y BATAYVAH OD SOBOLN Y RAAGYSOL
MYKMA VNAL YALPOR OYVEAE DS BYAH ASPS O NOKO
The gyrtrash reared and bucked, caught within the flames of hell rising up to claim its pet once more. Sam’s face was grim and determined, scowl deepening above angry and determined hazel eyes. He stood back and watched as the ground shimmered and bucked, opening wide to draw the gytrash down into its depths. Sam turned away as licks of fire and ice poured out of the hole, whirlwind whipping out of the ground to claim the fell beast that had darkened the Earth.
Finally, the night fell silent and the gytrash was no more, banished back to where it had come from. Sam stood back and glanced towards his brother, looking tired and older than his years suddenly. Dean walked forward, gaze fixed upon the ground, which had sealed itself against the passing of the gytrash as though nothing had happened at all. Castiel, still trapped within the grasp of Dean’s encircling hand, followed him silently, dark blue gaze shifting from Sam to Dean.
“You did well, Sam,” Castiel told the younger Winchester, when Dean remained silent. “You succeeded.”
“Yeah, good job, Sammy,” Dean agreed, breath streaming from his mouth in great gusts of white moisture against the darkness Castiel remained silent, as watchful as ever, staring at Dean and making the elder hunter uncomfortable beneath the weight of his gaze. As ever, Castiel did not seem to expect anything from him, yet Dean felt like giving him something anyway.
“So, thanks for the help, tonight Cas. I don’t think we could have done this without your help,” he said, with a smile.
“You are welcome, Dean,” Castiel replied, immediately.
Sam shifted uncomfortably, obviously feeling a little left out of what appeared to be a private exchange between Dean and Castiel. Neither took any notice of him, however, gazes locked, seemingly communing without words in the way that they most often appeared to do. It was only then that Sam decided to finally take matters into his own hands and push the couple together if need be.
“Are you well, Sam?” Castiel asked, suddenly, speaking to the younger Winchester without ever taking his gaze from Dean.
“I’m good, Cas. Tired but good. I think Dean has something to ask you, don’t you Dean?” Sam asked, pointedly, as he reached out to jab Dean’s shoulder with a tight pinch.
Dean swore and cast a disgusted look at his brother, only to be met with a pointed, encouraging glare.
“Don’t you, Dean?” Sam repeated, harshly.
“Yes,” Castiel prompted, patiently, when Dean didn’t immediately say anything. “What is it you wish to ask me, Dean?”
“Dude, seriously?” Dean asked, sounding uncomfortable as he continued staring at Sam.
“Do it, Dean. If you don’t then I’ll do it for you,” Sam said, with a disgusted and long suffering snort.
“Goddamnit, Sammy, what d’you think I am? A pussy? I can ask people out on my own, thanks,” Dean protested, in disgust.
“Then do it,” Sam said, with a laugh.
Dean glanced at Castiel, who was staring at him levelly, large eyes wider still in a liquid look of intense scrutiny. The angel looked just as inscrutable as ever, yet his eyes were the give-away of hopefulness. Dean was reminded of a puppy, begging for scraps and attention and he couldn’t help but smirk at the comparison. When it still seemed as though Dean wasn’t going to speak, awkwardness robbing him of words, Castiel spoke for him.
“Is this true, Dean? Do you wish to ask me out on a date?” he asked.
“I don’t do dates, Cas. I would like to take you out for a drink, though,” Dean replied.
“Don’t listen to him. It’s definitely a date, Cas,” Sam supplied, determinedly.
“Shut up,” Dean said. “Bitch.”
“Jerk,” Sam replied, automatically.
“Yes, Dean, I would like to go out on a date with you,” Castiel replied, graciously and formally. “Thank you for asking me.”
“You‘re welcome,” Dean said, a distinct growl in his tone.
Sam grinned and gave his brother a silent, and almost mocking clap.
“It’s about time you two got together,” he said. “The sexual tension was just about killing me.”
“Shut up,” Dean said and walked away, leaving Castiel no choice but to follow in his footsteps.
~*~*~*~
The rest of the evening went quickly, with Dean and Castiel just managing to catch a bar before it closed for the night. They had a drink each, but didn’t say much to one another. Despite this, the silence was comfortable, shared by two people who did not need to speak with words. Christmas carols played softly in the background, yet strangely, Dean did not find them intrusive or annoying,, as he usually would do. Strangely, he found them oddly fitting and Castiel did not seem to mind them.
Their hands continuously found each other, fingers brushing together purposefully and embarrassed smiles and chuckles soon exchanged. Castiel’s thigh was a constant pressure against Dean’s, yet the hunter did not shuffle away. Again, he found the contact comforting and when it came for the bar to finally close, he turned to Castiel, to ask him if he wanted to leave.
Castiel was sitting so close to Dean,. the hunter almost bumped noses with him, breath mingling in huffing little puffs as they stared into each other’s eyes. Dean swallowed, and he could feel the tension hanging thick in the air between them, atmosphere charged with promises and unspoken words that probably didn’t need to be addressed. Castiel licked his lips, pink tip soft and plush against his lips and that was all it took for Dean to finally lean in, closing the distance between them. Castiel’s mouth was as soft as looked, pliant beneath his own and although the kiss was uncoordinated and awkward, with Castiel not quite knowing what to do, it was pleasant, sweet and Dean wanted more.
He led Castiel from the bar wordlessly, clutching at the angel’s wrist as he did so, before leading him down a dark alley beside the bar, abandoned but for themselves. He leant in for another kiss, deeper this time, more insistent and the weight of Castiel’s hands against his back was a comfort. Castiel proved to be a quick learner for all his awkwardness in the bar, lips meeting and parting with Dean’s, growing in confidence as Dean nipped and sucked at the angel’s lips, marking him with teeth and tongue, soft appreciative moans the only sounds they made. Dean felt the tension he’d been feeling for some time break away and fall by the roadside and he opened up to Castiel, let him in and Castiel kissed him back, unashamed, giving as much as he took. The sensations were intoxicating, heady and almost too much, too quick and Castiel tasted like cinnamon and chocolate and flights amongst the clouds and sunshine upon Dean’s tongue.
Finally he drew away, needing to breathe and he stared at Castiel’s reddened, kiss bitten lips, swollen and tempting before him.
“Cas,” he said, voice a needy croak now.
Castiel shushed him, blinking slowly in the meagre light of the alleyway. “I know.”
Dean didn’t know what Castiel was referring to and hadn't known what he was about to say himself either. All he knew was that Castiel was there, finally in his arms and that his kisses were sweeter than wine and twice as addictive and intoxicating.
“Please,” Dean said, then and leant in for another kiss
Castiel let him, mouth parting beneath the hunter’s onslaught, tongues sliding one against the other, as the angel’s hands dipped down low to press against Dean’s ass, drawing him in closer. Again, Dean drew away, breath heaving in his chest, eyes closed as he leant his forehead against the angel’s.
“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he murmured against Castiel’s swollen mouth.
“Then why didn’t you?” Castiel asked, amusement warming his tone considerably. “I’ve been waiting for it.”
“You should have done something about it,” Dean said, with a chuckle.
“I didn’t know how,” Castiel replied, honestly. “There’s some places even an angel fears to tread.”
Dean laughed at that, before he said - “Somehow, I find that hard to believe, Cas.”
Castiel merely smiled at him and leant up to press a gentle kiss to Dean’s waiting mouth. Dean responded, gentler this time, smiling at the way Castiel pressed swift, bird-like kisses against his mouth, as though the angel was frightened of taking too much too soon.
“We’ve got plenty of time, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured against Castiel’s mouth.
“I know,” Castiel replied, and kissed him again.
Dean smiled into the kiss, thinking to himself as he did so, that it was the best Christmas ever. He’d be damned if he’d thank Sam for finally bringing Castiel and him together, however.
~~ the end ~~